Paul Williams classic shot of Trevor Hodgson on The Rainbow of Recalcitrance
I’m
writing this on the other side of the world from that Welsh mining
village. The sun is rising up over the Bridgewater Jerry - a curious
temperature
inversion
that follows the river out of the mountains at dawn around these
parts. Carlos, did you know the only time you can look straight into
the sun is when it’s on the horizon. That’s got to be an allegory
for something. Sunrise is the best time to study the sun.
I
had never met you, Carlos. (Your real name was Trevor but it never
suited you. So, we called you Carlos).
You
were the reason I travelled to that god forsaken valley. There you
were - a Paul Williams photo in a magazine. At the end of that
fabulous runout on The
Rainbow of Recalcitrance…
Miles out… Not a runner in sight… Mantle-tipping on matchstick
edges in your blue dancers’ tights… Attempting to put your feet
were your fingernails were. Legend had it that you fell from that
stance into the land that time forgot. Jules Verne wouldn’t have
known what to make of you in your getup, but he would have found
inspiration in the holes of Dinorwic I am sure.
Rain
doused the smoke-filled Pete’s, rivuletting down the windows. We
watched the dark quarry holes through clearing mist from the
sanctuary of the cafe. Forsaken by God. Forsaken by government. We
were left to our own fearful devices. Petty crime and petty
sponsorship were the order of the day. Days of fearful hangovers and
fearful overhangs. Nothing a few pints of tea wouldn’t sort out.
The
same sun glowing on my face like an ember will glow for you. In about
twelve hours the same sun will be rising on Flying
Buttress.
We
were lucky to live through those days. I don’t mean because of all
the adventures we had that made us smile. No, I mean survive. It
wasn’t a normal youth. Young lads like to gamble, I know that.
That’s why insurance premiums are so high for the under 25s. And,
without having lived through a war I had better not draw that
comparison. But,day in, day out, taking untold risks above tiny
fragments of brass, jokingly called ‘protection’. Loose blocks…
Shelling sea caves… bombarding echos… strafing hillsides like
bullets. Heads filled with drugs… Huge falls onto shit gear…
Heinous lockins… Unprotected climbs… Unprotected sex… Partying
’til dawn… Break in and enter.
Do
you remember Flying
Buttress?
‘Course you do! My dad was dying in Lancashire. I took a break and
came down to Llanberis. We climbed Flying Buttress on the Cromlech on
Menlove’s 100th birthday. 18th June 2010. It must have been a loose
and scary solo in 1931. He took cyanide a couple of years after the
war. But why am I telling you this? Now you have left us.
1.
60ft/18m
Climb
the crest of the ridge on large holds.
You
came from the same town as me and had my mother’s maiden name,
Hodgson. At the base of the climb we laughed at how we could have
been related. Well, I feel like I’ve lost a brother.
I
was on postal signing and sleeping in the women’s
toilets
in Vivian Quarry carpark. The ‘Merched’ had a hand dryer that you
could tape over the button on cold nights, and the floor was not
swimming in piss.
You
were toing and froing between Prestatyn and Llanberis, only returning
home to sign on.
We
started climbing together. You had this animal power about you that
not many could match. However, it soon became clear that you
were
not interested in making a name for yourself as a climber, as were many of
our tight group, myself included. Your passions went far beyond the
insular world of rock climbing. And that was one of the things that
was so special about you.
You never gave a toss what anyone thought.
You
laughed that infectious Kookaburra laugh as you put your rock shoes
on. You wandered onto the heather-filled ledge and then up a wall
past some vivid green holly. Then it was my turn to follow. I was
always following - you or others I looked up to. Trev, you didn’t
feel the need to be the best at this or that, though you clearly
could have been. You didn’t
feel the need to be recognised. You just concentrated on making
others feel great about themselves and lifting them up with you.
2.
60ft/18m
Continue
up to the pinnacles top of the ridge. Belay.
We
found a house with The Lentil (he came from Tydyn Sian, The Lentil
Farm),
Gwion
and The Harms. Together we held the infamous Ty Du Road parties and
made a hell of a lot of mischief: some of it more legal than others.
I remember it like the house off the 80s TV show The
Young Ones,
semi-derelict and always a riot going on… All rejects together.
You
were troubled and would oftentimes go into a dark place. Then you
would push your friends away. But we could all see the hurt. The
wounds. You littered the steep streets of Llanber’ with the
fragments of shattered hearts… Like broken teacups. But, given
time, all those you loved with a passion, and rejected with a
passion, still believed in you.
In
the absence of a climbing helmet I was wearing a bike helmet. It
wasn’t ideal headwear, but at least my head was well ventilated on
that scorching June day. We were never ones for following blanket
rules eh?
3.
20ft/6m
Climb
down over the pinnacles to belay on the L wall of the gully - Castle
Gully.
Climbing
rocks began to interest you less and you established a string of
businesses - mostly on the ropes. All great ideas. But with each
venture you seemed to find yourself on the ropes, for one reason or
another. Yet, after each failure you just rebounded. After each fall
you would brush yourself off and climb out of that particular hole.
We both moved on… You to the North Sea, I escaped to Australia. We
saw less of each other, but when we did I found myself laughing
around you like in past-times.
4.
50ft/15m
Climb
the large rock steps on the L wall, then step around the corner
crossing a little groove (or reach this point from below) to a
traverse line. Take this easily L-wards to an exposed stance by a
large flake.
“You
could climb this blind-folded Trev, I say. “Oh wait, you’re
nearly blind so you might as well be blind-folded!”
“Hey,
you, watch it.”
You
reach the stance. 'OK Paul'.
I
traverse towards you as you collect the rope in neat loops over your
feet. I keep seeing your mustachio’d chops, even though you haven’t
worn that style for more than two decades.
You
started a family with Emma. Leo and Eira, you are so lucky to have
had such a remarkable dad. Whenever I want to remember you Trevor I
just have to visit Ty Du road again in my head and there you are,
raucous behavior …Cheeky
downturned
smile.
I
am studying the sun as it rises. It is as if I am watching you being
reborn.
5.
65ft/20m
Climb
the steep wall behind the flake to gain a gangway. Follow this
R-wards past a ledge to belay below a chimney.
As
you led up the lovely sculpted pockmarked slab, you remarked on how
incredible it was to be grasping the same holds as Menlove did in
1931.
“This
route is like living museum piece.” Not
like other museums were everything’s behind glass… Don’t touch
the exhibits. Here you are invited to climb all over the artefacts.'
"I’m
making the very same moves as Menlove…
Look.”
The
whole of the Pass is a museum and each creator of a new climb donates
that climb to the gallery of the Pass.
See,
the Eckenstein
Boulder where Oscar
taught Archer-Thomson
the art of bouldering. Just out of sight is Cenotaph
Corner
were Brown placed the Chock Stone which is still used. Over to the
left is Nea
where Menlove
went
second to Nea Morin. Over the other side you can see Kirkus’s
Direct
Route
on The Mot. And Boysen’s spacewalking Skull…
Evans, Ingle, Whillans, Birtwistle, Livesey, Banner... Names of
legend.
But
king of all of The Pass in his day was Menlove Edwards.
“And
don’t forget Marlene
On The Wall
by Trevor Hodgson.” You cast back a downturned grin.
Then
you cakewalked up the rising traverse and out of sight to a belay…
…And
now you’re gone.
The
rope comes tight. We forgo all the usual rope commands “Safe,”
“On Belay,” “Climb When You’re Ready.” We instinctually
know what the other is up to. Even though we haven’t climbed
together for years. As I climb I look down through my legs. The road
is right below my heels. I continue to a huge loose block. I could
have reefed it off but there were people everywhere down below. And,
besides it might have bounced all the way down to the road, a
thousand feet below, just like the Cromlech boulders had thousands of
years ago. They are now sat in the car parking bay.
I
am having the time of my life. Thank you Carlos. As I round the
arête.
I ponder on the word. Arête
does’t just mean ‘edge’. It also means the realisation of one’s
potential, or living up to yourself in true existential style. Sartre
would have been proud of us. We were certainly fulfilling our purpose
on this earth that day.
As
I scupper round the arête
you come back into view. There, at the belay, you snap a pic with
your phone. I teeter up the ramp traversing over ‘the polish of
thousands of passing climbers’. I unclip the one solitary runner. I
couldn’t contemplate a fall now. I would have taken a massive
pendulum. But, you knew instinctively what ground I was likely to
fall off. What I would find difficult, or easy. This ramp was easy. I
was with you in no time.
6.
50ft/15m
Enter
the chimney, crux, and continue more easily to the top.
This
climb saves the biggest challenge for high up. The crux is at the
end. But you faced the final pitch with grace and bravery I’m
told.
Do
you recall, you led the chimney without putting in a single piece.
“So
you won’t have the added stress of taking runners out.”
I
didn’t mind as there was no way I could swing with you holding the
rope.
I
had to have a tight rope here, on entering the final leg.
You
were playing the opening rift from “Why
Dya Do It?
by Marianne Faithful on the rope (it was so tight).
“Do
you remember I played this all the time in Ty Du Road?”
You
were laughing and singing, “Why did ya spit on my snatch.”
And
you were just about keeping it together.
“Are
we out of luck now, or is it just a bad patch.”
I
came to you. I collapsed on my back, arms out in the sheep nibbled
meadow.
After,
on the descent you spotted me every few metres of that loose
gully.
And by the time we got down to your heap of a car, I was well and
truly shagged.
That
night at the party you were enthusiastically telling Johnny, Emily
and Ann of our day climbing together. I was in no state for
conversation. My leg was shaking violently, and Johnny was attempting
to ride it (we all dissolved into laughter).
And
that was the final climb we ever did together.
What
do you think Trevor? (funny how that name suits you now).
Silence.
You
are gone.
Route descriptions from Paul Williams’s Rock climbing in Snowdonia 1990.
Paul Pritchard: 2020
